


Asset Acquisition

by madame_faust



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 17:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: On October 2nd, 1989 eccentric billionaire Reginald Hargreeves made it his mission to track down and acquire the forty-three children spontaneously born on the day previous. Some did not survive long after birth. Some families refused to accept payment for their children. And some he never tracked down.This is how he purchased 1 - 7.





	1. Received a Blank Child

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning** : For brief depictions of **gore** and references to **infanticide**.

**Foundling Hospital  
London, England**

Hargreeves told Pogo to wait in the car. Stiff upper lip British propriety had its uses; the cabbie barely blinked an eye when Hargreeves told him to wait outside, with only a genetically engineered chimp to keep him company. Hargreeves doubted there would be much conversation in his absence; Pogo had a doctorate, after all, and this fellow made a living driving a cab. Doubtless they would not have much in common. 

A middle-aged man in a crisp blue suit, not unlike the one Hargreeves himself was wearing (though the man was no doubt unlike Hargreeves in every other respect) met him at the door. 

"Sir Reginald," he said, extending his left hand to shake. The right was conspicuously bandaged and tucked away in a sling across the man's chest. "I am Dr. Landry. I apologise that Dr. Phibes, the seniormost Governor could not meet you; he is yet recovering. I take it you received my particular warnings."

Hargreeves hefted an item that was firmly grasped in his right hand. It might, at first glance, be mistaken for a baby carrier, but for the dull sheen and obvious weight of it. "Reinforced steel."

Dr. Landry eyed the baby carrier warily. "I hope it holds. This way. Forgive our appearance, we are short-staffed just a present."

The halls of the hospital were scrupulously clean and notably bereft of children. 

"We've cleared the ward," Dr. Landry replied to a question Hargreeves had no intention of asking; the man was a talker. Perhaps he would have done better in the cab with Pogo and Hargreeves could have enjoyed the blessedly silent escort of the cabbie instead. "Children are curious creatures, we don't want any more accidents or disruption."

Curiosity was the greatest of virtues, in Hargreeves opinion - tempered, as it should be with practicality, and foresight. However, he understood Dr. Landry's precautions. The photographs he had obtained at no small fee from the local constabulary spoke to the potential consequences of pursuing curiosity to its ends. The photographs were tucked away at this time in Sir Reginald's coat pocket, just above his heart. 

As they walked the empty halls, the silence that Dr. Landry found so oppressive was interrupted by a persistent mewling. 

"Just here." Dr. Landry stopped in front of a door that had **INFANTS** printed upon the opaque glass. The mewling was louder when he opened the door, but not much. The pitiful wailings of a hungry, neglected thing.

There was a single cot in the room, illuminated by florescent lights. Dr. Landry stood by the door as Hargreeves strode forward. 

"Carefully," he advised, as though Hargreeves was some kind of idiot. Being nothing of the kind, Hargreeves peered into the cot, steely gaze piercing through his monocle at the sight before him. 

A male newborn child, still bearing the smears of dried blood. The child's face was red, its little fists and legs curled up against its naked body. The cries were coming more infrequently, as though he was starting to understand that no one was coming to tend to him. Hargreeves placed the reinforced baby carrier on the floor with a clang. The infant stopped crying. It blinked its puffy eyes and stared blearily up at Hargreeves's figure, which must have seemed only a dim, blurry image, blocking the light overhead.

Hargreeves retrieved the photographs from his pocket. They were objectively grisly. A woman with dishwater blonde hair - or what remained of her. The top half of her torso showed a stocky woman, tall, of strong build. The sort called 'handsome' and not 'pretty.' She was still wearing the remains of her uniform, a sky-blue housekeeper's dress. Well. Blue where it wasn't stained with blood. 

The back had been broken. Her limbs were splayed like a marionette's against the carpet she had been in the midst of cleaning. Her eyes gazed sightlessly at the wall. The legs were twisted and, devoid of context, the lower half would have been difficult to identify as an animal or human carcass, at first glance. It appeared, even to Hargreeves' trained eye, like so much churned meat. 

And there, at the bottom of one of the images, was the doer of the bloody deed. A male newborn child. Quite an auspicious beginning; a murderer, less than a minute old.

Hargreeves replaced the photographs in his pocket; it might be useful, when Number One needed a gentle reminder of his potential. What he was capable of. 

The infant was quiet. Nevertheless, Hargreeves did not like taking unnecessary risks. From another pocket he withdrew a cloth and a bottle of ether. With clinical precision, he soaked the cloth, then pinched it between a titanium rod he'd brought specially for that purpose. With the rod he lay the cloth over the child's nose and mouth. 

"Oh, good God - " Dr. Landry began, but was silent. Clearly it was against his nature to bring potential harm to a child; even a child who brought so much harm to others. After all, what was to be done? The child might slip away into the vast unknown soon enough without Hargreeves's intervention - and in much more agony, wasting away from cold and hunger, seeing as how no one could get close enough to properly care for him. 

But, no, Hargreeves wasn't taking it quite that far. After a few seconds the child lay still and limp, but the rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was very much alive and well.

Once the infant was sedated, Hargreeves wrapped him in the blanket conveniently underneath the child in the cot and strapped him securely into the baby carrier. Odd. He expected the child to feel heavier when he handled him; he made a mental note to run a few additional tests when he returned home. 

"Thank you, Sir Reginald," Landry said, not quite meeting Hargreeves's eyes. "There...ordinarily there are some forms to sign - " 

"Is that really necessary, in this particular circumstance?" Hargreeves interrupted, having no interest in wasting time on unnecessary bureaucratic formalities. "It is unlikely anyone will seek to claim custody of it. Unless the host's family has a particularly bloodthirsty or vengeful streak."

Landry visibly paled. "No. No, I suppose you're right at that. Could - could I interest you in tea or - "

"Best to be off, I think," Hargreeves interjected again. "I would prefer to be in my own home when it wakes. I have suitable facilities at my disposal for the express purpose of avoiding any...accidents."

Hargreeves gaze lingered pointedly on Dr. Landry's splinted arm. Landry nodded again and, in a subdued tone, thanked Hargreeves for his interest in this case. The cab was waiting, just where he'd left it. Hargreeves opened the back door and slid the baby carrier onto the empty seat beside Pogo. He took his place next to the driver as Pogo secured the carrier. 

"The child seems so...innocent," Pogo mused quietly, taking in the apparently sleeping baby beside him. From his waistcoat pocket, Pogo removed a handkerchief and daubed at the smears of blood littering the child's face. "It's hard to imagine - "

"Pogo, do be cautious," Hargreeves advised. "We don't want to take our chances and rouse the child prematurely. That is, if you have a particular attachment to those fingers of yours."

Pogo hesitated and withdrew his hand from the infant's face. He'd manage to tidy him up a bit; the rest would have to wait until they returned to the house. 

"Did the...did the child have a name?" Pogo chanced to ask.

"Number 155,781," Hargreeves informed him. "They haven't done as brisk a business as they once did, since the War. For our purposes, he will be known as Number One. A decided improvement. Easier to remember, at any rate."

Hargreeves caught Pogo's eyes in the rearview mirror of the car and smiled, a brief baring of teeth. Pogo hesitated, as though he might make another inquiry, but Hargreeves seemed to have moved on from the conversation. 

"Mexico City, Mexico," Hargreeves said. "I don't think I will require your assistance there - you'll be much better use at the house. Keep the ether handy, it was very effective in sedation. The next retrieval should not require nearly as much preparation."

Pogo's eyes flickered from the unconscious child to Hargreeves eyes in the mirror. Any further comment, objection, or question fell from his mind. "Yes, sir."


	2. Gift from God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Hargreeves practices thrift and, in the mind of one young mother, theft.

**Colonia Obrera  
Ciudad de México, México**

The mercury soared above average for the time of year to a balmy 27 °C. Hargreeves found himself overdressed for the occasion and the air-conditioning was malfunctioning in the car he'd loaned for his trip around the city. 

"Lo siento, señor," the driver apologized as Hargreeves discreetly dabbed the sweat from his brow. He did not respond to the driver's apology; it wasn't as though he controlled the weather. Hargreeves would have made him a subject of interest if he did. Instead, he peered idly out the window as they turned down a row of little run-down houses.

In the streets, dogs got up from lolling in the roads and skulked away into shaded doorways, though the car was moving slowly and no immediate threat to them. Some growled and bared their teeth while others only whimpered, looking up at the darkly tinted windows, wary of what was inside.

The few children occupied with skipping ropes and soccer balls paused in their games and looked curiously at the car. It bore no government markings, nor did the little community expect it to. When the earthquake hit, they received no aid, nor even a visit prompted by a photo opportunity where politicians could tut-tut at caved-in roofs and look mildly shocked at burst and broken pipes, flooded kitchens, gardens turned quarries for the amount of debris that settled in what should have been vibrant beds. 

Four years on, the neighborhood still bore the scars of the event. Walls shored up improperly against structural damage. Leaks in roofs and floors that were endlessly patched and broken. It hadn't been a particularly affluent neighborhood four years ago; now it was teetering perilously close to becoming a slum. 

But Hargreeves was not here for the ambiance; he was here on business.

The car rolled to a stop in front of an isolated little house. The driver got up and walked around to the back of the car to let his passenger out. He did not comment, but he could not help seeing the curious sight of an infant carseat next to the strange man he'd been driving for the better part of an hour. Nor the briefcase on the floor, which the gentleman picked up and held tightly in his left hand. The carseat remained behind.

"Espera aquí," Hargreeves snapped and the driver stopped looking at the back seat and looked at him instead. "No lleva mucho tiempo."

There was something off-putting about the man that the driver did not like; nor did he like to look at him. But he wasn't being paid to look or paid to wonder. He was only being paid to drive. The driver inclined his head slightly and replied, "Sí señor."

The lonely little house stood before him, cowering, like one of the neglected animals in the road. No children played there, no old men lounged outside, smoking cigars or peering suspiciously at the man in the monocle and impeccable suit, striding down the street as though knew the way intimately. 

Hargreeves did not knock or linger at the door. He let himself in. He was expected. 

A young man in a service station shirt greeted him at the door. The tag on his shirt read ' _Miguel_ ,' in stitched-on cursive script. It was dark inside the house, but not quiet; there was a radio playing in a room and the sound of a young woman's voice raised in gentle song. 

"El dinero?" the man asked. Hargreeves lifted his left arm to indicate the briefcase, but lowered it and gave the young man a forbidding look. 

"Donde esta el niño?" Hargreeves asked; payment upon receipt and not a minute more. It was all arranged and Miguel would do well to recall bargains. 

Miguel was no better at meeting his eyes than the driver. He frowned, but jerked his head toward the sound of the music. "Ven conmigo."

Hargreeves followed Miguel to a little back bedroom. The windows were open and caught in a gentle breeze. It was clean, but bare, but for a few seashells on a small dresser, a few pots of nail polish and tubes of lipstick on a makeshift vanity, also the home of an old, but serviceable radio. The focal point in the room was an old wrought-iron bed made with once-white blankets. Though they had been clearly laundered they bore the tell-tale marks of old blood in the very center. The stains were hidden, though, by a young woman, fifteen or sixteen years old, cradling an infant in her arms.

Miguel's sister, clearly. They had the same deep-set eyes and small mouths. The brother's mouth was hardened to a thin line and his brow was creased with suppressed anger. The girl's mouth was softer, gently smiling at the baby to whom she'd been crooning along to the radio. 

When Hargreeves entered, she turned her smile upon him. "Eres el doctor?"

Ah. Easy mistake to make; the girl saw the briefcase he carried and assumed it was a medical bag. Hargreeves did not reply either yes or no; no sense in lying to the girl, but he could use her mistaken assumption to make things easier for himself. 

Instead of speaking, he simply held out his right arm for the child. The girl rose from the bed, pressing a little kiss to the baby's head; it was sleeping. Its eyes were closed and little tufts of black hair peeked out from the blankets. Hargreeves eyed the child closely. Its skin was light brown, its cheeks full and round, it appeared to be in the peak of health...but he detected no movement of air in and out of the lungs, no rise and fall of the chest. The child did not seem to be breathing. 

Miguel held out a hand expectantly for the suitcase, but Hargreeves held tight to it; he was not rendering payment for expired goods.

The girl followed them out of the bedroom, chattering a mile a minute. "Él contiene la respiración, me pone nervioso! Pero el come bien y el es muy dulce! Dulce y feliz."

Hargreeves was only half-listening. He put the briefcase on an obliging table and lay the child down, distantly wishing he had brought Pogo along after all, medicine being one of his specialties, but Pogo had his hands full at the house, devising tougher robotic arms to aid in Number One's care. Hargreeves hoped this one would require less careful maintenance.

The limbs were supple; there was a pulse fluttering in the tiny wrist. No bluish tinge around the lips, eyes, or in the extremities. Alive, but not visibly drawing breath. Interesting. This would require further study. 

Hargreeves lifted the child up and left the briefcase. "Lo llevo."

Miguel nodded and opened the briefcase, counting the contents. The girl looked between them, understanding dawning quickly. Then she started to scream.

"No!" she shouted, leaping on her brother, grabbing his arm as money fell and scattered onto the floor. Hargreeves walked toward the door sedately. Any family conflict was none of his concern. He had what he came for. 

The brother held the girl by the shoulders, explaining to her that this was the best. It was a horrible thing, what happened to her, but they could move on. They could use this money to start over. She could have another child - a _natural_ child.

She did not listen, she tried to break his hold on her. She was crying now.

"El es mi hijo!" she tearfully declared. "Me regalo de dios! Me regalo de dios!"

Roused by all the commotion, the child began to stir and fuss. It drew breath to cry. The sound was an irritant, but the child did _breathe_. Not a waste of money, then. Hargreeves smiled in satisfaction; one did not retain a large fortune by being frivolous with finances. 

Hargreeves paused just long enough to fasten the child into the car seat (an utterly normal carseat, not too expensive). He was letting himself into the back seat when he saw the girl come running out of the house. He closed the door, but she ran up to the car in her bare feet, pounded on the window with her fists, screaming in a tone that rivaled the crying child's for noise. 

"No puedes hacer esto! Por favor no hagas esto! Por favor, señor! Puedes tener el dinero - dame a mi hijo! El es mi hijo!"

The driver sat, unmoving in the front of the car, hands gripping the steering wheel. 

"Vamos," Hargreeves said. Then, when the driver did nothing, he caught his eye in the rearview and commanded him again, " _Vamos._ "

The man spared one look back at the girl before he accelerated. The child proceeded to wail as the turned the corner down the street. With an irritable sigh, Hargreeves sat back against his seat; that settled it. This man would not be receiving a tip of any sort.


	3. The Rest is Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try not to think too hard about what happened to the other babies in the rush for the door.

**Texas Children's Hospital  
Houston, Texas**

Hargreeves rented a car in Texas and transported himself to the children's hospital. When he acquired Number One and Number Two, he expected there would be an adjustment in his daily schedule, but was reliably informed that human infants spent the majority of their day in repose. That was entirely correct; both Number One and Number Two averaged about 16.5 hours at rest. However, they did not keep to those hours reliably or consecutively. 

Number One, in particular was fond of catnaps punctuated by long bouts of piteous wailing (which only ceased with the application of a kevlar blanket to bind his limbs and a remarkably fine nursemaid in Pogo would would hold the child, which was the only way to stop the sound). Number Two preferred longer periods at rest, but when he was awake liked to be constantly in motion. Over a million dollars in laboratory equipment did nothing to placate him. The best investment Hargreeves made recently was a $20.00 plastic swing where Number Two spent many happy hours. 

Hargreeves required silence. With his recent bout of luck, he imagined that a hired car would come with a driver who felt the need to keep up a constant stream of chatter. Hence the rental. There was a car phone, which Pogo had been severely instructed not to engage unless there was an emergency. So far, all was quiet. 

This visit would be a welcome change from the sturm und drang of Number Two's retrieval. No family at all came forward to claim this child and the host was not in a position to either approve or object to his adoption of the child. It cause a minor scandal when a comatose patient was found to have given birth to a baby girl. Hospital staff was blood tested, accusations were made, the police became involved - but all for naught. The biological signature of the child was not even a complete match for that of the host. Some speculated that the hospital itself was to blame, as a corporate entity. Testing in-vitro fertilization upon helpless and unknowing subjects, but that theory too was quickly abandoned. 

It was a mystery. A puzzle. A miracle in the eyes of some fringe lunatics who Hargreeves saw standing outside the public parking lot, holding signs proclaiming the arrival of a new Messiah, or the Anti-Christ. No matter, Hargreeves thought as he drove past them to park the car, they were both wrong. It was nothing more than a peculiarity. A peculiarity which he intended to make useful. 

Hargreeves only took the carseat into the hospital this time; as at the Foundling Hospital, no money was to change hands directly, merely a generous donation for the privilege of taking an unwanted child off the hands of the organization saddled with its care. 

As Hargreeves neared the Labor and Delivery floor, his once-enjoyed quiet was broken. Not merely by the needy cries of two infants, but the piercing moans of dozens of them. 

He paused by the nursery window; dozens of little medical cots were lined up for viewing, children were wrapped in blankets of soft pastels and to a one they were all _screaming_. Some were visibly lying in their own waste. Others had kicked off their blankets and were likely complaining of the cold in the only way they could. No nurse tended to them. No doctor poked their head in to see what the matter was. No parent demanded to know why their child was being neglected. 

The noise was so troublesome for his nerves that Hargreeves found himself obliged to use earplugs when he entered the nursery. He walked past the rows of hungry, cold, dirty children without a second glance and toward a commotion at the back of the room. There was a small crowd gathered, a motley assortment of hospital employees and what appeared to be patients. Nurses in colorful scrubs, doctors in white coats, and women in hospital gowns and thin cloth slippers. They to a one seemed oblivious of the chaos behind them. Instead they were cooing and beaming a little bundle being passed from person to person, gently cradled and rocked and praised. 

The empty cot around which they all gathered had a label on the front which read **'Baby Girl, 10/1/89 12:00PM'** The infant herself was the object in question, being shared among the crowd. A fat, contented little thing with thin black curls and large brown eyes that blinked slowly every once in a while, leading to universal adulation, distantly heard by Hargreeves through the earplugs.

"Isn't she beautiful?"

"What long eyelashes!"

"What a sweet baby girl. Perfect. Perfect!"

"Is she too cold?"

"Is she too warm?" 

"Is her diaper too tight?"

"Is her blanket loose enough?"

"Ahem!" Hargreeves cleared his throat loudly when the child made its way to the patient nearest him, a woman with lank hair and tired eyes. Her distended abdomen was evidence of having recently given birth. Perhaps she had come to look in on her own child before becoming distracted. None of the assembled crowd looked as though they'd slept, likely devoting themselves round the clock to the infant's care. 

The woman looked at him and beamed a wan smile, too wide to be entirely natural, her lips very white and chapped. "Do you want to hold the baby? Everyone should get a turn! She's a little bit of sunshine, a blessing, a - "

As in Mexico, Hargreeves took the child without comment. It was only when he bent down to fasten her securely into the carseat and strode quickly toward the door that the woman's tone changed from bliss to panic.

"What are you doing? You can't take her away! She's our's! She's _our_ special treasure, we have to take care of her - "

Other voices followed. There was a mad scramble after him. The sound of falling medical equipment and overturned cots. The screams and wails of the infants were joined by those of the adults. 

Hargreeves was not going to do anything as undignified as _run_ from the frenzied crowd. A waste of energy and anyway, he might damage the child. Instead he closed the door of the room firmly and announced to the white-lipped woman who'd followed closest on his heels.

"It is _mine_. I paid for it."

Then he locked the door. Well, _sealed_ the door would be a more accurate description; useful little tool, multipurpose, like a Swiss army knife, only with a setting to melt and fuse steel in an instant. The woman continued to jiggle the handle, despite the fact that the residual heat must have burned her palms. The others wailed and screamed, beating on the doors, shoving the other nursery cots and their occupants out of the way to follow Hargreeves down the hall, but he did not fret. All were contained behind glass and would not trouble him in the slightest. 

Once he was by the rental car he removed his earplugs. As he secured the carseat, Number Three made a little grunt of unhappiness, a precursor, he knew from exposure to Number One and Number Two, that precipitated crying.

At once he was struck with the thought, _I should bring her back. She was well cared for. Well looked-after. It's what's best, to bring her back._

Hargreeves hands paused upon the release button for the seatbelt. _No,_ he thought more steadily. _That's not right._

The compulsion faded to an impulse, then finally vanished altogether. When the child started crying in earnest, he was able to brush off the sudden urge to rush her back upstairs even more quickly than the first time. 

The earplugs were replaced at once. From within his pocket Hargreeves withdrew the strongest weapon currently in his arsenal: a little white pacifier with the image of a yellow duck on the outside. The child latched onto it immediately and sucked with great enthusiasm. Then her eyes closed; minutes later she was asleep. 

Hargreeves took his place in the driver's seat and started the engine. _Ah, blessed silence._


	4. Thirty Pieces of Silver

**Dresden, East Germany**

Nannies were hired in quick order. Three, currently, young women who had been told the particular requirements for caring for their charges with little explanation as to why. The limbs of Number One were best tightly bound when he was awake. If Number Two appeared not to be breathing, do not trouble Sir Reginald about it; if particular concern was aroused, merely poke him with a sharp implement or pinch him to make him start up again. Number Three was best kept in isolation; if the children or their caregivers must be in near proximity, the nannies assigned to Number One and Number Two must wear earplugs for the duration.

A fourth nanny would need to be procured, if all went according to plan, which was looking increasingly unlikely. Hargreeves' contact was _late_.

The effects of a bloodless revolution were putting a wrinkle in his plans; a year ago, Hargreeves might have leveraged passage to the West as part of his bargaining for the child. Now, with hundreds of thousands crossing the border into Hungary daily, it appeared monetary compensation was all he had. No matter; whatever the government, one thing was clear: the clergy would always pass the basket, when the opportunity presented itself.

"Herr Hargreeves?"

Ah. At last. 

The woman before him was short and squat, dressed in a nuns' habit. She was holding a swaddled bundle in her arms; Hargreeves had enough irony in him to wonder if the good sisters thought that a miracle had occurred in their midst, but the woman's small, hard eyes did not bespeak a mind given to flights of fancy. He wondered that she became a Sister in the first place. 

Once again, the briefcase, once again the carseat - tricky bit of business, that. He did not travel by air in a Boeing, naturally, but he fancied himself a good enough pilot that the infant would not be jostled about too much in its carrier. 

Hargreeves nodded at the address and placed the carseat on the ground, resting it against an obliging headstone. The setting was nothing short of macabre, a churchyard by a decrepit cathedral, covered over with stormclouds, but the gloomy ambiance was necessary. They could not conduct such an exchange at the convent, and the good sister was not possessed of a car. 

Using the headstone for balance, Hargreeves opened the briefcase and displayed its contents; so flinty-eyed was she that he knew she would demand to see the payment before she made the request of him. He had a particular talent for reading people. 

The Sister peered inside. "Deutsche Marks?"

Hargreeves nodded, snapping the briefcase closed.

"Yes," he replied. "Unless you'd prefer your dissolving nation's currency, but I wouldn't chance it. Not unless you'd like the contents of this briefcase melted down in a year's time."

The Sister shifted the child to one arm and crossed herself. A prayer for unification? Against it? Against Hargreeves himself? It didn't matter, he neither needed nor wanted the woman's innermost thoughts. He only wanted the child.

"I almost did not come," the woman said in stilted English. "Even now..."

Her eyes drifted up to rest upon the spire of the old church, where lightning, time, and the weather had worn the old stone cross down from its spire. It looked like nothing so much as an accusing finger, pointed Heavenward. 

"We have an arrangement," Hargreeves pointed out. "Is it not the business of your order to find placement for unwanted children?"

The Sister nodded, hesitantly, eyes locked on the baby in her arms. "It is."

"I have a home for it."

"You do."

"Ample funds to provide for its care."

"Yes."

"And I have taken the trouble to arrange travel for myself and the child while providing yourself and your order not an insubstantial fee," Hargreeves concluded. "What more - " 

They were interrupted by a sudden cry of alarm from the child, as though it was suddenly startled, though the sister had not moved since she called Hargreeves's name, and the stillness around them was so complete, not a leaf rustled on the trees. Silent as the grave, as it were.

"Nothing more," the Sister said, raising her eyes to look at Hargreeves' face. "I only have a feeling..."

Hargreeves came closer, bearing down on the woman, staring at her keenly behind his monocle. Her gaze slid away to look at the buttons on his waistcoat. Just like the rest. Humanity had a marked difficulty looking at him for too long. He held out the briefcase expectantly.

"For yourself and your order," he said, a note of finality in his voice. "To aid in the continuation of your works of corporal mercy."

She hesitated. "Are you a man of faith, Herr Hargreeves?"

"I have great faith," he replied. And he did. Faith in himself. His brilliance. His ingenuity. His tenacity. Faith in a higher power? Upon this Earth, he _was_ the higher power.

But the words calmed her misgivings, as he knew they would. The Sister handed the infant over and took the suitcase full of soon-to-be-useful currency.

"Judas Iscariot sold the life of our Lord for thirty pieces of silver," she said, apropos of nothing. 

Hargreeves bent to secure the child in the carseat. Though it was quiet now, it was not looking at Hargreeves directly; its little eyes, still newborn blue, seemed to be trying to focus on something just behind him. Blind? He would have to study that further. And wouldn't that be just his luck? Already he was conscious of the nagging suspicion that he'd overpaid.

The woman was holding the money and had not moved; she seemed to be expecting a response.

"Is that so?" Hargreeves asked from his bent position on the ground. "How much is that, in your modern currency?"

The Sister looked down at the briefcase. "About...5,000 Marks. I believe."

Hargreeves smiled. A cold, victorious bearing of teeth. "Well, then. It seems you have been _most_ handsomely compensated."

The woman did not respond. She stood by the tombstone, holding the money. The dark clouds that had threatened over their whole exchange swelled to bursting; it began to rain.

Hargreeves opened his umbrella and walked away. Though he did not look back to confirm it, he believed the little nun remained in the churchyard for some time after he'd gone. Opened the briefcase. Counted the Marks. And asked herself, what _was_ the proper cost for an entire human life?


	5. Istanbul, Not Constantinople

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we know why Five is such a coffee snob.

**Beyoğlu _  
_ Istanbul, Turkey**

Hargreeves was granted a reprise from visiting hospitals, homesteads, and convents. Today's pick-up was most civilized and conducted in comfort at a charming little cafe that served exceptionally good coffee. He was renewing an old acquaintance and only brought himself, dressed in a white linen suit, and the required briefcase full of liras. There would be no need to handle the infant himself; he didn't even need to bring a baby carrier. It was akin to being on holiday.

There was a kind of peace in the hustle and bustle of a observing the comings and goings of those who called a busy metropolis home. A droning background noise of honking cars, music playing out of open windows, men arguing about football whilst women dodged around them, running errands. An industrial music of the spheres, if you like.

Of course, Hargreeves was bound to always be an observer, in essentials. A perpetual scientist in the field. Watching the objects of his curiosity scurry about their blue world. Not an unkind observer, but he did like to think of himself as impartial. All the best scientists were.

He was sipping his coffee, thinking about ordering something sweet to accompany it, if his contact continued to take his time, when he spied a familiar shape bobbing and weaving in the crowd.

Mustafa was conspicuous to Hargreeves by his ability to blend in. Though a large man, substantially built (whose broad, weathered face bosted an even more substantial mustache), he could slip away unseen when he wished, pass through a crowd of people unheard, without even the brushing of his coat against another's arm or leg to alert them of his presence. That he could do so with a baby carrier slung under one arm was doubly impressive. There was nothing definitive about age in his face, he could have been a hard-living thirty something, or an exceptionally well-preserved man pushing sixty. Not that it mattered to Hargreeves; Mustafa was valuable to him in that he was useful to him, as all good friends ought to be.

Mustafa extended a hand for Hargreeves to shake, which he did, pumping it once, briefly. "Commander."

"Sir Reginald," Mustafa replied, with a slight incline of the head. He placed the infant beside Hargreeves and acquired a cup of coffee for himself. Hargreeves chanced a glance at the child; all limbs in order, dark eyes open, not exceptionally noisy. Satisfactory.

Mustafa returned with his cup, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief; all for show, there was no sheen of swear on his face, no danger of the points of his immaculately waxed mustache drooping even a millimeter. Hargreeves responded by adjusting his monocle; appearances must be maintained.

"You think this is wise?" Mustafa asked, breezily, an intellectual exercise and not a challenge. "Grouping them together like this?"

Hargreeves sipped his coffee. "Of course. Under constant observation, I can make a full and detailed analysis of their peculiarities and, more to the point, their _potential_."

"The phenomenon was a scattered one," Mustafa pointed out. "Forty-three children, born in at least twenty-five different countries. To take them all to America, bring them up in one house, one might believe you were building your own little army, Sir Reginald."

The corners of Hargreeves' mouth quirked up. "A sound criticism, if I _required_ an army."

The corners of Mustafa's mouth disappeared into his mustache. "Touche. You are not concerned about future loyalties, then? I hope you do not intend to outfit the children in red, white, and blue. A bit too on the nose, wouldn't you say?"

"Commander," Hargreeves tone indicated that while he was not angry _yet_ , there was a possibility is temper might be roused in the near future if his old friend was not careful. "They will be loyal to _me._ And I, as ever, an concerned with their usefulness to the _planet._ I intend for them to do great things. America. New Zealand. The South Pole. It doesn't matter. Excepting to Pogo who hasn't the constitution for an Arctic climate."

Hargreeves was rewarded with a chuckle for his troubles. "Ah, good old Pogo. How is the dear doctor, may I ask?"

"Busy," Hargreeves replied at once. "He told me to pass on his regrets at not accompanying me, but he is constantly occupied in the nursery. It has become quite tedious, actually. I told him he might just as well leave them in the care of staff, but he insisted he was atuned to their moods or something like that."

"Sentimental," Mustafa nodded. "Good to know some things never changed - ah! Humor me, won't you? Let's see what lies ahead for you."

Hargreeves had reached the end of his coffee; only the dregs remained. It was a harmless superstition, this preoccupation with the future. Ridiculous, time and space being constantly in flux, but still, harmless. He turned the cup over on its saucer.

Mustafa observed the pattern of the grounds with some interest. A line appeared between his black brows. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" Hargreeves responded, seeing nothing so much as a bit of black sludge.

Dark eyes flickered up to meet Hargreeves own gaze; Mustafa was better than most about looking at him straight-on. He didn't flinch, at least. "I am afraid, old friend, that their ascension may require your destruction. Or so it seems."

No fear flickered in Hargreeves eyes at this pronouncement of doom. His face did not pale. And his hands did not shake as he hefted the briefcase on the table and left it between them.

"So long as they ascend," he replied, rising and holding out his hand for Mustafa to shake. They parted like gentlemen, one with the money, the other with the child, who had fallen asleep during their talk.

When Hargreeves stepped onto the curb, sunlight streamed across the infant's face. The child twitched, eyes blinking to wakefulness. There was a slight shudder in the air, a whiff of ozone and Hargreeves found himself a half-step back, under the awning of the cafe in the shade.

He frowned down at the child, then employed the retractable hood of the carrier, shielding the child's eyes from the sun. This time it slept on and Hargreeves, as well as time itself, marched on.


	6. Misplaced Optimism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For **gore, descriptions of violence, and descriptions of war.**

**Undisclosed Military Base**  
**Seoul, Republic of Korea**

Number Six had been born on the wrong side of the 38th parallel and extracted across the border at great risk and expense. The promise of emigration and the changing of hands of large sums of money resulted in the rearranging of guard postings and the use of a previously unknown incursion tunnel. It was an expedition only undertaken to ensure national security - once the child was across the border in Haean, it seemed the whole government breathed a collective sigh of relief. Things had been looking up for the country since the Olympics. Another war would derail their standing, cost countless lives and might have global ramifications for the Republic and her allies.

The linchpin upon which stability hung was a round-faced infant on a gurney, blinking owlishly up at a bright overhead surgical light while a select group of surgeons stared back at him. Weapons manufacturers, military personnel, and arms dealers waited on tenterhooks for what they hoped to uncover from the vivisection. 

At least one of the doctors meant to be present in the room begged off; he couldn't do it, he said. Not after he saw the child, lying there, prone and vulnerable. He'd taken an oath to protect life and it would fly in the face of everything he believed and every standard to which he held himself. This would be considered cruel and unusual treatment if it was applied to an animal, let alone a human child. 

That led to a brief debate - was the child human? And did it matter? Would their hostile neighbors to the north have been so circumspect? Would they have wrung their hands and sighed and moaned over _ethics_?

In the midst of the brief disruption, no one noticed another surgeon join their ranks, tall, pale, but otherwise undistinguishable from his fellows in his blue scrubs and surgical mask obscuring his features. The glare off the eye shield of the mask even disguised the monocle over the man's left eye. 

The doctor whose sense of duty was so shaken by what they were meant to undertake was finally permitted to leave the surgery. They were wasting time. And, the head surgeon added, casting a steely gaze at her companions, if _anyone_ felt a moralistic compunction to halt the proceedings, they must keep it to themselves or else leave. Immediately. 

No one moved. The child's clothes were removed and if anyone felt a twinge of conscience, it was gone as soon as his torso was bared.

There was no flesh from ribs to bowels. No visible intestines. That is to say, there was nothing. A void, empty and somehow vast and unfathomable, confined as it was to the small area where the child's stomach ought to have been. It wasn't true black, but it had no color, and registered as such to the eyes of the humans in the room. Some blinked and had to look away, feeling nauseated at the sight, but not from disgust. It was uncanny, that void. Something upon which human eyes could not rest with comfort, which the mind could not comprehend and the body instinctively cringed against viewing. 

This was what was so important to smuggle across the border. This window. This gateway. What it meant for the human understanding of the universe, of travel, of war. This child birth might have been their nation's undoing; his sacrifice their greatest gift. 

Think of it! Soldiers that could travel through time and space - what a primitive thing incursion tunnels would seem then! Like Neanderthals scratching at the dirt with sharpened sticks compared to sophisticated soldiers who could touch the stuff starlight is made of. Bombs that did not have to be dropped from planes flying overhead, landmines that could be targeted, appear and detonate where they were meant to, not fester in the earth to make limbless husks of farmers and blind children at play. 

What would war be, then? A strategic, tactical masterpiece, collateral damage a thing of the past. A master game of chess that could no longer descend into chaos, whose repercussions would not stretch for decades and scar the landscape of a once-lovely countryside. 

The man in the monocle stood impassively back slightly, as the assembled scientists drew eagerly close to the gurney. He could feel their hopes and dreams and those of their superior officers around him, like a thick fug in the air. The kind churned out by factory smokestacks, brown and hanging in the streets. Naive, but not endearingly so. Humanity would always been its own worst enemy. Left to their own devices and governed by their passions, humans would destroy themselves over and over again. They wanted looking after.

Take this stalwart group, for instance. They thought they were ready to plumb the depths of the unknown and they eagerly sliced through the bubble of their ignorance scalpel in hand, smiles unseen behind flimsy medical masks.

One or two turned at the whooshing sound of an umbrella being opened. Hargreeves gave a dismal little unseen smile of his own behind his mask, before he shielded his face with the umbrella, a little incline of his head that meant _good-bye_.

Not a second too soon; the anticipatory silence of the room erupted into screams before the scalpel touched tender flesh. From within the void emerged writhing limbs, punctuated with a thousand eyes and mouths with sharp teeth, glistening with otherworldly ichor, gleaming in colors beyond the visible light spectrum. 

Hargreeves waited behind his umbrella as the vinyl was assailed with thick mucus and so much red blood. That hopeful fug lifted at once; now all he could smell was iron; he tasted the metallic tang of it on the back of his tongue. 

It was over in less than three minutes; Hargreeves folded the umbrella and belatedly noticed an arm, separate from its owner, sitting at his feet. The hand was outstretched in rigid expectation; a silent plea for help, come too late and addressed to one who had a tight schedule and no plans for rescue on that day. 

Hargreeves shook the worst of the gore from the umbrella and removed his mask first, then attended to his bloodsoaked surgical scrubs. The room was blessedly quiet; no one had time to reach the panic button. 

He stood, immaculate in his suit, among the slain, as gruesome and bloody as any battlefield. The smell really was terrific now, the blood mixing with torn-open bowels and sliced up innards. Likely the room would have to be sanitized extensively before it could be put to use again; might be better to burn the place down and start over again from scratch. 

Approaching the child, he saw its pale skin was glazed red from the splatter of gore that coated the surgical lamps. He had to pick his away across the corpse-strewn room to reach Number Six who seemed unaffected by the damage he had inflicted; he had gone right to sleep. 

In a move which would have made Pogo proud, Hargreeves diapered and dressed the child, even went so far as to dab at his blood-flecked face with a handkerchief. That woke the infant and, with a clumsy accurate, the child latched on to Hargreeves's smallest finger and squeezed it with all his might. 

Which was not so mighty as it might have been. Low muscle tone, merely an ordinary reflex. Number Six did not seem physiologically affected, apart from the little transdimensional portal in his stomach. Disappointing, but then again, Hargreeves had only observed him for a brief time. If any of his children were destined to have hidden depths, it was likely this one. 

Scooping up the child in his right arm, he made for the door, shunting bodies aside with the tip of his umbrella, not in a particular hurry. The security cameras were all neatly disconnected, after all and they were few in number to begin with. That was the most delightful thing about top-secret government projects - once infiltrated, they were very easy to stroll out of. After all, no unauthorized personnel ought to have even known the facility existed, let alone gained access. 

A nanny had already been engaged for Number Six and he had the references for another, should that prove necessary. He'd lately received a tip he was going to follow up on, though it was irritatingly vague. A swimming pool in Moscow had been the sight of an unexpected birth; the mother swore up and down that she'd never even been alone with a boy in her life.

It might be nothing - many of his leads were simply young women (or not so young women), embarrassed and trying to cover up a little natural indiscretion with a very _unnatural_ explanation.

By this point, Hargreeves was used to disappointment - the return upon his investment of time and resources was very small indeed; he'd hoped to have at least acquired half the number of children born on that strange, auspicious day. It looked now as though he might have to content himself with fewer than half the number he had originally anticipated. 

Just as well. Six children, seven children, ten children, raw numbers did not matter. They were meaningless. A piano was a collection of wood and strings, a gun was metal and a bit of fireworks, an atomic bomb only some elements which existed dormant in the earth for thousands of years before being combined. Tools were only useful in the hands of one who knew how to use them.

After all, look at Number Six now. Contentedly sleeping. Useless. A blade needed to be sharp to be effective. Hargreeves could be both whetstone and swordsman; he only needed to fill his armory. 


	7. Seven Billion Divided by Seven

**Approximate Elevation: 30,000 Feet Above Sea Level**   
**Approximate Location: On an Easterly Course over Leningrad, USSR**

Hargreeves had every expectation that his journeys would not end in Russia. That new possibilities would open up on new continents - he'd not been to Africa or Antarctica or even South America, come to that. Theirs was not a small planet. Seven billion people. It stood to reason there would be more.

Yet as the weeks dragged on, it seemed that was not to be. Forty-three known births. And all he had to show for it were seven children. It was an abysmal percentage and Hargreeves had a fit of temper over it as he flew for home, his latest acquisition squalling miserably behind him. 

Did these people truly not understand what they had? The potential they were squandering? He was under no delusion that the vast majority of the original forty-three were rotting in small, dark, forgotten places. Their lives stamped out by hosts too panicked or frightened, or foolish to understand what they were doing. Like the girl he'd just left; still suffering the after-effects of shock such that she could not understand a simple question. _How much?_

The others who spoke for the shell-shocked girl let the child go for a song, a pittance. Despite his talent for thrift, when it came to these purchases money truly was no object. Not with the fate of this world he - and those seven billion _others_ \- called home.

Honestly. The stupidity. The lack of foresight. Were their mean, little lives _worth_ preserving?

Perhaps he should simply open the hatch and send Number Seven plummeting down, down, down to the earth below, where no one valued her for what she might herald. And then, adopt the same primitive mindset that smothered dozens of other children like her. Put Numbers One through Six to the ducking stool; if they drowned, they were merely ordinary and no use to anyone. If they float, well, murder them at once! For they must be evil, mustn't they?

Hargreeves gloved hands tightened on the controls of the aircraft. No, none of that. He'd set himself a course and he would stick to it. For the sake of the Earth. Even if he never got a bit of gratitude for his monumental efforts. The preservation of life was of the uttermost importance. Not _all_ life, of course. When the fate of the world was in the balance, there would be the inevitable casualties.

The sunlight glinted off his monocle. For a second that stretched to eternity, he saw fire, smelled the burning and the blood. The tremendous explosion and sudden darkness in the night sky. Hargreeves blinked. Green parks on warm spring afternoons. Bustling concrete sidewalks, teeming with life. 

With a force of forty-three diverse and thriving individuals working toward a common purpose, success in this endeavor was an easy guarantee. With seven, a long and difficult slog. But he would manage it - they would manage it, even in his absence. They had to. The fate of the world - this world - depended upon it.

Nowhere did Hargreeves feel more at home, more genuinely himself, than when he flew. From on high he could survey the Earth and all her blue hues, white-capped mountains, brown savannas, green rolling fields. And see those seven billion from a distance. Small, but multitudinous. The loss of a few dozen or a few hundred was merely tragic. The loss of the lot was catastrophic. 

Being above them all gave Hargreeves a sense of scope. This was his mission. Protect and preserve life on this blue ball, third from its star, spinning cheerfully on its tilted axis toward oblivion. 

A squall from the infant behind him broke his concentration, ended his glimpses of what might be, the several outcomes, his not-yet-come successes and failures. Brought him back to the present reality. The aircraft shook; spot of turbulence. He adjusted the controls to compensate.

Seven extraordinary individuals to protect seven billion ordinary individuals. Nearly impossible. Nearly. But not _quite_. Sir Reginald Hargreeves did not set himself impossible tasks, wasn't the sort to go tilting at windmills. He never would have gotten far on this world or any other if he was.

Eventually the child's squalling ceased and the rough air passed. He sailed on smoothly toward home, mind churning with plans. 

Human infants were notoriously underdeveloped at birth, lacking the capacity for meaningful movement and communication. They needed aid with their most basic functions. He understood this and was prepared to wait the two or three years it would take before they could follow simple commands. Two or three years; he did not like the delay, but he was prepared to wait out their natural frailty. He would make the most of this time. Temper the steel, as it were, before he honed it and put it to use.

Hargreeves reached home before long. He had engaged another nanny who was waiting with Pogo at the gate. He deposited the infant in her care and made for his study. Pogo attempted to waylay him.

"If you would like to look in on the other children, sir - "

"Why?" Hargreeves asked, peeling off his gloves, removing his aviation gear and depositing the lot in Pogo's arms to be washed and stored until he needed use of them. "Is one of them ill? Showing signs of defect?"

Pogo seemed briefly taken aback; that soft heart of his would get him in tremendous trouble one of these days, Hargreeves was certain. "No, sir. All healthy. And in...good working order."

"Very good," Hargreeves nodded. He continued striding to his study, walking at a quick clip.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Pogo say, "I only thought - "

Hargreeves shut the study door neatly behind him. It did not matter what Pogo thought; he was in error. Hargreeves wanted nothing more than to record his observations of the day, Number Seven's vital statistics, how she was obtained, and his thoughts moving forward. Then a bath. 

Yes, Hargreeves thought as he sat behind his desk, opened his notebook to a fresh page and uncapped his pen. A bath would do nicely. The mind required time to recuperate; if one was to remain in peak physical and mental condition, one could not work all the time. 


End file.
